


The Posting Wind

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 11:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19062118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: Methos does something interesting with his Quickening.





	The Posting Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 2008

Methos sat cross-legged on the dew-damp grass at the highest point in the park where the overlook allowed a full view of the city. It was almost sunrise and the sky was tinged orange and azalea-pink along the horizon. 

He had been there already for an hour. He had walked up the hill in the dark and had settled in to watch the curious spectacle of the sky gradually growing brighter. It never ceased to amaze him how it melded so seamlessly from absence of light, to violet and indigo, through the gray scale until it filled with hints of blue, and finally into a daytime sky. 

But he had come here for a purpose. 

He hadn't done this in nearly fifty years, which had prompted the hike to the symbolically high point at the park. The last time he had been practiced at it, had been easily able to do it in the kitchen between the putting on the kettle and the boil. But at the moment he was a touch rusty. 

It was imperative that he not fail. Things were happening, meetings were taking place. Joe needed him as back up, and so did MacLeod, even if the man didn't know it. Methos fully intended to be there when the Challenge took place, with his long distance scope, and his trusty rifle. Do Not Interfere be damned. He wasn't going to lose any more friends this time around. 

So, here he sat, and tried to concentrate. 

The edge of the sun rose up past the horizon, spreading just a hint of butter-yellow warmth across his skin. A breeze blew past his face, a few hairs tickled the curve of his ear, and with the focus on the purely physical, he slipped into the deep trance that he had sought. 

The wind moved past him. The wind moved past. The wind moved. The wind. The….

Everything that he was, everything centered in his form, stretched across the park with the tendrils of the wind. Methos looked down from the spiky tops of the trees, one arm brushing across the blades of grass, and one foot kicking up waves in a puddle along the old mud road, and he felt as if he were everywhere. He twisted around the branches, back-flipped, and raced, low and high all at once. 

Whoooooooosh. 

Remembering the purpose of this exercise, he took the confetti of himself and threw it to the skies, and dashed it out everywhere until bits of it stuck to everything, glittering and scattered. He considered what he had done and felt satisfied. 

So, Methos gathered himself up again, and concentrated. 

With an agonizing breath, he took air in. It hurt in the way it did when he came back from the dead, going from nothing to something in a fraction of a moment, and it hurt to realize once again that he was trapped in the physical boundaries of his body. It was not hard to recall why he had stopped practicing this particular trick of science and nature, since the sensation of all that endless reach was so recent. He ached for it again, and knew he must not succumb to its siren call.

But it had been necessary. 

Methos took a small penknife out of his pocket and flicked the blade at the tender part of one fingertip. It bled and bled, and did not heal. He pulled the bandage from his pocket and applied it judiciously.

And Methos smiled. 

It would last only until sunrise tomorrow morning, before his far-flung Quickening would once again bind itself to him, but it would be enough time to do what had to be done. As only a mortal could.


End file.
